What I've learned so far.

No, I won't bore you with rhapsodic ramblings about the supreme joy of motherhood.

Instead, let me tell you the honest truth: it's goddamn fucking hard.

Now, I'm not the most maternal of women, never have been. I still don't feel maternal- I don't connect with the fact that I am now a mother, and that this perfect little creature belongs to me. In fact, sometimes I look at her and think "where did THAT come from?"

Yes, there are incredible moments where I look at her creamy satin skin or her little hands that open up like starfish, and I fall in love. But because life is so fantastic at balancing out the good with the bad, there are other incredible moments where I look at the toxic waste in her diaper and fall in love with the person who invented baby wipes.

And here are a few other things that I've learned, that have humbled me and that have driven me thisclose to being an alcoholic:

- holding a baby while they're screaming and crying results in hearing loss.
- no textbook will ever describe a baby. Each baby has their own personality and secretly loves torturing you with not being a "book baby".
- making up formula at 4am is the equivalent of doing a chemistry experiment in the dark, with one hand tied behind your back while the 10 pound bag of potatoes you're carrying in one arm is blasting an air horn in your ear.
- yes, it's feasible for a little stomach to somehow have room for food every hour, all day long.
- my clothes perpetually smell of baby vomit.
- it is possible to survive on 1 hours' sleep and no food all day. For 2 weeks straight.
- a long, hot shower is something that I fantasize about sometimes. Throw a massage in there, and you could get me to sell my mother into white slavery.
- the first time you go out with a buggy, it feels like the most traumatic outing you've ever done in your life. Especially when old grannies push you out of the way to get a seat on public transport.
- when I manage to put her down for a nap, I feel like I have the "Jeopardy" theme song in the background and I have a limited amount of time to do what I need to do. Do I shower, eat, nap, or do I do all 3 at the same time?
- eating dinner with the mister and being uninterrupted is impossible.
- baby poo has the ability to eat through a diaper, clothes, a blanket and even the couch they're lying on.
- as annoying as it is to admit it to my Type-A self, I don't have to do the housework. If it's between that or a catnap for 30 minutes, the nap always wins.
- I've learned to appreciate the convenience of having leftovers for dinner. Or frozen pizza.
- No, I can't do everything for everyone and be a superwoman. As much as I try, I have to learn to admit defeat.
- I don't feel like a mother yet.
- I don't like having "baby conversations" with adults all the time, as if my baby is the only reason for my brain to be active. Give me a stiff drink and some gossip, please.
- I long for my pre-baby life sometimes.

Now, looking at that list, it seems a tad negative. Well, I call it realistic. However, as I said before that life is the great equalizer, there are always the good bits that I've learned:

- the smell of the top of her head is the most intoxicating smell I've ever known. I feel it like a gorgeous ache in my heart. It's the same ache that happened when I fell in love with my other half.
- her cries, no matter how annoying and peace-shattering, sound like the sad whimpers of a tiger cub. I find it heartbreaking to leave her crying for too long.
- when she looks at me and scans my face and touches my cheek with her chubby hand, I melt.
- when I hold her little naked body in the bath with me, I realise how nervous I am around her still, and how I yearn to be a perfect mother for her.
- watching the mister talk to her and soothe her as she falls asleep on his chest is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen him do.
- I am petrified of anything bad ever happening to her. I think it's probably my greatest fear.

So, there you have it. Some good, some bad.

All priceless.

Slight change in perspective.

I've become a cliche. In the best way possible, mind you.

I always rolled my eyes at any one of my girlfriends that professed this undying, indescribable love for their child. I didn't do it in a malicious way, I was just never a "baby person". I always found it really beautiful to watch, but I never saw myself in that kind of light. To be honest, I never really thought I'd have kids until I met the mister.

I now sit here in our living room, looking out at the lake through our floor to ceiling window, the soft static of the baby monitor buzzing in the background, glass of wine in front of me. The mister is in the nursery finishing the murals that he's painted on the wall of our little girl's room, and the star of the show is in her moses basket in our bedroom, doing her little lamb-like cries as she's trying to soothe herself to sleep (I find it so hard not to run in there sometimes and cuddle her, but I know she'll be okay on her own for a bit).

I have a daughter. It still hits me like a ton of bricks. I find it hard to say it sometimes, from the sheer power of what that means.

This little thing will be with us for the rest of our lives. I will always be a parent. I will always have this little hand to hold. We will always be teaching her things. How to dance. How to be brave. How to be good. How to love. How to laugh.

It destroys me, the amount of love that is coursing through my body- like some kind of potent drug that keeps radiating out of my pores, my eyes, all of my extremities. I feel broken into tiny sparkling fragments- each piece its own badge of happiness for what my life has become. When I look at her face, when I bring her into bed with me, when I smell the top of her head.. I end up bursting into tears. And what magnifies it even more is when I see her curled up on her father's chest.. these two people are the most precious things in the entire world to me. It's adoration personified.

It's true what women have always told me: you cannot explain the feeling that you have when you have a child. It's completely indescribable. And oddly enough, I can already imagine going through pregnancy all over again tomorrow. The pain has completely evaporated from my memory, and the only thing that's left is sheer addiction to make another and another of these precious little mini-versions of us.

My perspective hasn't changed dramatically, it's just shifted a bit. Like the difference between taking a picture with a standard camera and a panoramic one.

My world feels panoramic.